


Get Lost And Find Yourself

by Fal1Out_Girl



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bisexual Disaster, Coming of Age, F/F, F/M, KIND OF I GUESS, M/M, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, absolutely - Freeform, but in this case, cross-country roadtrip, i don't know what to tag this as yet?, instead of dealing with problems you should run from them, not really - Freeform, who's ready for this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-13 20:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16899081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fal1Out_Girl/pseuds/Fal1Out_Girl
Summary: Atarah Wagner is a good Christian girl. She always has been. She's never wanted to commit a sin. So when she realizes she's definitely not straight, her world gets turned upside-down. How can she be a Christian while also being queer? Even more concerning, how did it take her so long to realize something so important about herself? These questions lead Atarah down a path of conflict, heartbreak, self-discovery, and freedom, and along the way she meets friends, foes, and most importantly, herself.





	Get Lost And Find Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> My first published (kind of) original work! I hope you all enjoy it!

     I've never been worried when walking into the library. It's always been my favorite place in the whole world, an endless supply of stories and characters and world contained between the covers of all these books. When my sisters get too loud, or the tension between my mother and me gets too thick, I always know I can find solace in the nonexistent arms of the library. But today as I come in, shaking in my boots as I cling to the strap of my bag for dear life, I sense something different. Because this isn’t a regular trip to the library. Tonight, I’m joining a book club. Not just any book club mind you, this isn’t a group of space geeks or country romance folk. Oh no, this is even more concerning.

     This is a _queer_ book club. Sounds completely normal, I know. But it’s not normal for me. I’m not supposed to be in queer book clubs. I’m not supposed to be involved with queer people at all. No Christian person is. Or, that’s how I was raised. Of course, I never thought being gay, or asexual, or pansexual or whatever was a bad thing. I just knew that I couldn’t be part of that. Christians aren’t supposed to do that. Christian girls live their lives as innocent, virginal people who marry good Christian boys and do whatever their husbands say for the rest of their lives until the good Lord sees it fit to take them out of this miserable world.

     Maybe it’s not _exactly_ that dreary. And maybe not every Christian girl is expected to live that life. But around here, in this part of town, that’s pretty much how things go. You marry a guy and as the Bible says, you listen to him, because he’s in charge. I’d never been really opposed to that concept before I figured myself out (alas, this young version of myself knew nothing of feminism and being independent). But all of I sudden I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to marry a guy. And when you realize things like this, it puts you in a panic because you can’t be prepared for it. What are you supposed to do, tell people? No, absolutely not.

     You do not, for any reason, tell anyone.

     You simply don’t. The fallout would be life-ending. If you tell the wrong person, the news gets out quickly. And before you know it everyone is giving you that holier-than-thou look of judgment, and the word finds its way right to your parents who (in my case anyway) are bound to have less than pleasant reactions, and you just might find yourself out there on the streets with nowhere to go. And when people find out you’ve been kicked out, they come by and bombard you with a chorus of honey-sweet _“I'm praying for you”_ lines and eventually you're left with no choice but to leave town and change your whole damn name.

     And the worst part is, despite their… _assuring_ statements, church folk are not actually praying for you when they say that. Or, they’re not praying for the right thing. Because religious folk are maybe a little too fond of seeing people condemned to Hell, and on the off chance they do pray, they pray that you’ll be ‘delivered” from your sin. Because clearly, falling in love with another girl is about as bad as it gets. That’s what I’d been told my whole life. And when Christians tell you about sin, they come at you with the “fire and brimstone” storyline about how unless you repent and beat yourself up about being a dirty, sinful being, you’ll fall right into the burning pits of Satan’s eternal nightmare and die an infinite amount of brutal deaths. I don’t know if I believe it happens _exactly_ like that, but the thing about religion is it’s all 80% theatrics and 20% actual doctrine and theology. They scare you with the nightmarish tales of bitter ends, and when you have a moment of clarity like I did, you become so scared of being shunned by the good God in the sky that all you really can do is cry your heart out and stay quiet about it forever.

     Or, at least a month, because then you have to tell your best friend. Because you can tell best friends anything, and they’re guaranteed to keep your deep dark secrets hidden away. And if anyone’s good with secrets, it’s Akira Pearson.

     Especially when she has a similar secret to hold.

     “Religous queer deer” is what she starts calling us. The lesbian and the bisexual who are _way_ out of their depth on this one. Or, I am. Akira’s known about this aspect of her life for a while. She's got a handle on dealing with stuff like this. “Join a club,” she’d told me. “We’re queer Christians, Attie. You and I are lucky we’re across the street from each other, but we’re prone to being left out of queer groups. We need to find more people in the community. It keeps us sane.” And that makes sense in all truthfulness. There’s a whole thing in the Bible about how Christians need other Christians. We’re like a flock of flamingos. And I needed to find my own bisexual flamingo group to join. It was no easy task of course, you can’t just search _“queer people in Denver”_ and expect results. Or apparently you could, because I found a group of teenagers who meet in the library every Friday night to discuss queer fiction, and that’s why I’m here now, all but full-out panicking as I push open the door leading into the meeting room the group rents each week.

     I’m not entirely sure what I expect, but I do know I don’t plan on getting noticed right away. Which is why a giant grin and two chocolate eyes appearing about three inches away from my face scares the hell out of me.

     “Welcome to the cub!” he says, and I pray to God he doesn’t hear my surprised squeak. If he does, he takes pity on me and doesn’t comment on it. “What’s your name?” I have to take a minute to find my voice, shifting just a tiny bit backwards to put a little bit of space between us.

     “Atarah.” He’s smiling harder. I didn’t think it was possible to smile that hard.

     “That’s such a beautiful name,” he compliments, and now I’m smiling a little too. “Where’s it from?” I shift the bag on my shoulder and shrug.

     “It’s Hebrew,” I explain. “It was important to my mom that I and my siblings got Hebrew names.” The boy’s eyebrows crawl up curiously.

     “You’re Jewish?”

     I hate that question.

     It sounds innocent enough, generally asked without a lick of malice, but my answer is complicated. As far as heritage goes, I’m a proud Jewish girl on my mother’s side. But no one in our family has practiced the religion in three generations, and we made the decision as a family to honor that heritage while also sticking to our belief in Christ- thus, our conversion to Messianic Judaism. It’s a strange religion, not really Jewish and not entirely Christian. It’s a funny little niche in the middle. And normally when I tell people that’s what I practice, they bombard me with more questions than I knew existed, and my brain can’t keep up with them. So when this guy asks, I take a moment and prepare myself.

     “Kind of. I’m Hebrew on my mom’s side, but I’m a Messianic Jew.”

     I hold my breath and wait. He grins again.

     “Oh, that’s cool! My family’s never been really religious or anything, so I don’t really worship anything. Oh my fuck, I haven’t given you my name. I’m Noah. And I just cursed in front of you, I’m sorry about that.” He adjusts his glasses while I stare at him. I admit, I like him. If for no other reason yet, for not slinging a million questions at me in the span of three seconds.

     “Hello, Noah,” I hum. “Don’t worry about cursing, I do it all the motherfucking time.” He seems to relax, and nods his head.

     “So, we just finished up reading _Everything Leads To You_ which was fucking amazing. You should definitely read it sometime, if you get the chance. Now we're moving on to _The Miseducation of Cameron Post_ , which I hear is absolutely incredible.”

     “I’ve heard that too,” I agree. “Makes sense really. The most powerful stories are the ones that hurt like that. Or, true stories are more powerful in my opinion, but still.” Memoirs, biographies, historical retellings, those are the books I live for. Akira still won’t let go of the time I holed up in my room and read a retelling of Alexander Hamilton’s romance with his wife (which I maintain, is still one of the most iconic love stories to actually happen. Fuck Cleo and her boy toy Tony). Reading has always been my passion, I’ve always had a love for it. I used to fancy myself a writer until I realized how much focus it takes to write a story worth telling, and I am unfortunately lacking in that area. Noah seems to agree with me.

     “Real life is the wildest story there is, isn’t it?” He smiles at me.

     Yeah, he’s definitely my type.

    Others are beginning to sit, and I do my best to stay calm as a blonde girl approaches and takes a seat on my other side. She crosses her legs and leans forward to look at me, then Noah.

     “Ah, Noah brings a friend today,” she muses. Damn, what a voice. I praise God for my dark skin now, because if I weren’t dark my cheeks would be red right now. “You got a name, darling?” She focuses her baby blue gaze on me, and I find myself frozen in my seat.

     She can call me anything she wants. But I don’t tell her that. Instead, I clear my throat and manage a tiny little smile.

     “I’m Atarah.” Her pink lips curl up just so.

     “Samantha. And I think I’m gonna call you Attie. Is that okay, Attie?” I nod, feeling like I’m about to explode. Her grin grows, and her eyes shift over to Noah. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been holding out on me, dude.” From the edges of my sight I can see my new friend hold his hands up.

     “I wasn’t! she’s new here,” he explains. “I saw her when she came in and we started talking.” Samantha snorts softly.

     “Don’t spend too much time talking to this goofball, Attie,” she tells me. “Once he gets started, he’ll never stop.” Noah feigns offense, but there’s a look of amusement in his eyes.

     “That’s fucking rude you bitch,” he huffs. She giggles and turns her head to the front of the room, where another guy is standing, shuffling a few papers and settling two books down.

     “Let’s get this started,” he says. “For those of you who are new to the party, welcome. We’re the queer book club you’ve been looking for your whole life, and we’re glad you found us. For those who aren’t new-” He lifts up one of the books and shakes it slightly. “-How did we enjoy the novel?”

     For the next half an hour or so, the group around me discusses the book they’d just finished. I attempt to follow the conversation, but I keep getting drawn to others around me- Noah, Sam, the unnecessarily cute girl dressed like a damn lawyer in the front, the color of one girl’s hijab, this guy who looks like he could square up with Arnold Schwarzenegger and possibly win. When I do tune back in, they’ve moved on to talking about the new novel they’re reading. _The Miseducation of Cameron Post_ , it’s called, and I immediately feel a connection to the story. Then again, I suppose I would feel a connection to the story of a queer girl in the hands of conservative guardians, wouldn’t I? The discussion turns to some of the themes in the story- coming out versus being outed, the conservative view on people like us, losing people. It’s a good conversation, and though I don’t offer much to it myself I enjoy hearing what others have to say. By the end of the session I’m more than ready to get my hands on a copy of the book. And I almost go to do exactly that, but Sam stops me.

     “You know,” she hums, “There’s a good chance most of the copies are already checked out. Why don’t we share my copy?” She leans against the wall in front of me, and I wish I could explain the funny feeling in my gut her gaze gave me.

     “Are you sure? I could get my hands on an electric copy or some-”

     “Of course I’m sure!” She nods her head, blonde waves bouncing around her face with the movement. “Tell you what, we can pick a night each week and hang out together at my place, read out loud and shit. It’ll be fun!” I don’t answer right away. Sam holds her hand out with a smile. “Here, give me your phone and I’ll put my number in. I can text you my address and everything.” How am I supposed to say no to a pretty girl who wants my number? Within moments my phone is in her palm, and she saves her name as Sammi with three purple hearts following the last letter. Noah pops up in my peripheral vision, grinning away.

     “Already swapping numbers? Let me get in on the action! Can I?” He tilts his head at me questioningly.

     “Go right ahead,” I relent. He saves his name cleverly in all emojis-a boat, two, dogs, and two cats. I appreciate the humor. By the time I get home I’m feeling good. I see Akira’s point about finding more queer folk.

     But the problem with coming home is that the good mood is bound to disappear upon stepping into the house. Mom’s there to greet me with a displeased frown. Lovely. I drop my bag on the counter and go to the fridge, fishing out a bottle of water before turning my attention to the freezer and grabbing the mozzarella sticks I hid in there last week (because in this house, any unprotected will be eaten by my father). The entire time, I’m hyper-aware of Mom’s eyes on my back.

     In all the years of my life, I’ve never known Ruth Wilkins to be, well, gentle. Not when it comes to emotions, or approaching conversations. And not with me at least. With other teens, with my friends, she proves herself an incredible motivational speaker. She presents herself as trustworthy, a judgment-free person you can tell anything to. With me, she’s entirely different. It’s harsh words, it’s grudges and judgement and a lot of yelling. At this point in my life, I simply despise talking to her.

     “Where were you all this time?” she demands. I put the mozzarella sticks into the microwave oven on the counter.

     “The library.”

     “This late? It’s late., Atarah. You were supposed to be home before me, remember? I ended up washing the laundry myself today, you know that?” That’s her favorite line. Anytime my poor mother is forced to do a single chore herself in the house, she laments about it for the rest of the night. It takes a lot of restraint to keep from sighing aloud. Her voice takes a sharper tone that instinctively makes me tense. “Look at me, little girl.” I comply quickly and steel my face. She’s glaring now. “Why were you at the library so late?”

     “... A study thing. We’re meeting at the library every Friday from now on to study and work on stuff together.” Mom’s eyes narrow.

     “Who exactly are ‘we’?” I pause for a moment.

     “Just some classmates.” She stares at me for a few, eternal moments.

     “I need you to wash the dishes.” My eyes shift over to the pile of plates in the sink, and my brows furrow.

     “Why didn’t you have someone else do it?”

     “Your sisters were busy.” I open my mouth to ask what exactly they were so busy with, but Mom is already exiting the kitchen, and I instead let out a slow huff of air.

     “Fucking perfect.” I cross the kitchen to go start the dishes, but pause when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. I pull it out and smile when I see Sam’s name on the screen with her address. Then my phone buzzes again and I see another text from her.

      **Sammi <3<3<3: lookin forward to seeing u again attie <3**

     For the first time in my life, I smile while washing the dishes.

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, the first chapter! Let me know what you guys think! Comments and kudos add years on my life so send them in! I'm always open to constructive criticism.


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